


Sweet Things

by flyingllamas



Series: A lifetime never to be [5]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Featuring grape gryphons from Happyorogeny's fics, Illidan gets hit with the angst bat, Kael'thas tries to smooch it better, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 22:57:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14412306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingllamas/pseuds/flyingllamas
Summary: “What sort of things did you like, before things changed?” Kael’thas asks. Illidan chuckles at the prince’s persistence but does not answer.--Illidan would prefer to be left alone, but Kael'thas seeks him out in odd places.





	Sweet Things

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt found here:
> 
> https://sentence-prompts.tumblr.com/post/171247467137/what-kind-of-things-did-you-like-before-things
> 
> Credit to Happyorogeny for their grape gryphons!
> 
> Loosely beta'd by folks over at the Disaster Elves discord (Rivkael and Windchaser, thank you! <3)
> 
> As always, my tumblr is llamastheflying.tumblr.com if you wanna hit me up with any questions or complaints.
> 
> If you are interested in our Disaster Elves discord server, please feel free to add me on discord at Hericartria#7234 so I can get an invite to you!

This perch, high up on the arches of the temple, is not an unusual perch for him. Illidan has always been a creature of habit and though he varies the spots in which he rests to throw off erstwhile assassins, he does tend to come back to a few of them. This one in particular is a favorite, giving him a rather nice view of the magical flares of life within the valley and anyone who would try to approach him.

 

Including, it seems, Prince Kael’thas.

 

He does not offer aid to the mage prince and instead watches as he attempts to make his way up to the narrow spot where Illidan perches. Knowing Kael’thas (and he does not know this general as well as he would like to), the prince would take it as an insult if Illidan were to swoop down and pluck him up. To that end, it is still entertaining to watch the prince ungracefully climb up the steep side of the arch Illidan sat on. 

 

Slowly but steadily, Kael’thas makes his way up through a combination of well-timed blink spells and no short amount of scrambling. From his own experience as a mage, Illidan understands why the prince does not simply teleport. The amount of calculations against the orbit of an unknown, half destroyed planet that went into non-static, short distance teleportations were hardly worth the time and effort. Even still, if the prince were off by a hair, he could either end up with a cracked skull or merged with the very stone of the temple.

 

When Kael’thas nearly reaches the top, Illidan finally extends a hand to him. The prince gratefully takes it and allows Illidan to pull him up the rest of the way. The perch is small, so Illidan pulls the prince flush against his side before resting a hand against the small of his back. The prince is known for his enthusiastic gesturing while speaking and Illidan would rather not have one of his brightest fighters fall off this perch when he inevitably gestured too wildly.

 

“That was quite the climb, Kael’thas,” he says mildly. He does not bother to hide his amusement and Kael’thas growls at him when the prince sees the smile on his face. The growl itself is rather pathetic, for the prince is still trying to catch his breath.

 

“Well, not all of us can have giant wings, master,” he snaps breathlessly. Illidan ignores the half venom that the prince speaks with.

 

“I count my blessings daily for that,” says Illidan, “for I would spend more time helping stranded elves from spots they should never be than battling the Legion.”

 

Kael’thas nearly tips off to side from his seat, half distracted as he is by a pair of blood elves walking below them, and the prince moves closer against Illidan’s side. He positively radiates warmth, comforting in a way that Illidan hasn’t felt in quite some time. 

 

Illidan tries not to think on that too much and enjoys the momentary comfort the prince’s presence brings them. 

 

Kael’thas is still watching the elves below them, who are oblivious to their presence above, when he asks, “I thought you were working on that? Making more hunters like you, I mean.”

 

“Mm. I am, but it is not going as well as expected.”

 

“Or perhaps it is,” Kael’thas says and finally looks up to meet Illidan’s gaze. His eyes are bright with the gleam of the unholy energies he subsists on, set into the fiery silhouette of magic that Kael’thas cuts into his limited vision. “You know as well as I do that fel is capricious by its very nature. It is a miracle that any of them have survived at all. Not everyone has your strength, master.”

 

“That may be so, for I do not believe their wings will ever hold their weight for more than gliding. A pity, but it means less elves to rescue from places they ought not be.” He then murmurs, “I would surrender my own strength, that more might survive the process.”

 

He watches the pair of elves, a priestess and magistrix, disappear back into the depths of the temple, arm in arm, hand in hand. How long has it been since someone lay a gentle hand on him so easily, so willingly? He thinks it must have been Tyrande, the time before she shattered his heart.

 

“Your mind seems elsewhere today, master.” 

 

“As it often is when I sit alone like this, uninterrupted by meddlesome princes.”

 

Kael’thas ignores the jab and presses further. “What thoughts occupy you such that they haunt you still?”

 

Illidan can almost imagine the faux-innocent look on Kael’thas’ face. He does not know if the prince truly wishes to know or simply is looking for fodder to use against him in the future. Either way, he is feeling generous today. There is not much on his mind now that could truly be used against him in the future, anyway.

 

“The past,” he says finally. He can hear Kael’thas’ heartbeat pick up from excitement and realizes that the prince did not actually expect him to answer. “Even my happier memories seem to be tainted by the bitterness of the future, of the imminent actions of those in them.”

 

The prince hums and looks away from him to the vista before them. What little he himself can see is impressive; no doubt it is stunning to Kael’thas.

 

“I know that feeling well,” says Kael’thas. “But I also know that there are some memories yet untouched by that bitterness.”

 

“I very much doubt that.”

 

Kael’thas says nothing in response and for half a moment, Illidan worries that his harsh response has silenced the prince. It turns out that he never had to worry, for Kael’thas breaks the silence quickly.

 

“What sort of things did you like, before things changed?” Kael’thas asks. Illidan chuckles at the prince’s persistence but does not answer. Let the prince work for this, he thinks, if he insists on being a pest. Kael’thas seems to know that there is a game afoot, much to Illidan’s delight.

 

“There’s small things that I miss,” the prince admits, “that I’ll never get back. But they remain sweet to me even after all this time. Chocolate cookies from the Bazaar, the scent of incense from the royal sanctuary, stolen kisses under trees heavy with fruit in Dalaran…Surely, you have similar memories.”

 

“Does the loss of your kingdom and of Dalaran not pain you, when you look back on those memories?” Illidan asked. 

 

Kael’thas sighs, and says, “It did, at first. I realized, though, that it will not always be that way. My kingdom will rise once more into a greater glory than ever and I will see Dalaran rebuilt as well.”

 

“And that, my prince, is the difference between our memories,” Illidan says. “I have no hope of redemption, no hope of future happiness, and thus my memories remain bitter.”

 

Kael’thas huffs, obviously unpleased by Illidan’s cynicism. The prince’s bitter disappointment is almost palpable on Illidan’s enhanced senses. Loath to lose the warmth at his side, he decides to give in a little to Kael’thas’ games.

 

“I suppose…” he starts, thinking back through his scattered memories. He could remember some things from his past in vivid detail, the feel of Tyrande’s dress, the smell of sweat and earth and  _ life _ on his brother’s skin after returning from Cenarius, the click of the Wardens’ boots as they patrolled by him. 

 

He hears his companion’s breath catch, no doubt waiting on his answer. At random, Illidan picks a memory, a soft and fuzzy thing.

 

“There were confections, made in Suramar,” he says. “I never cared much for many of the fruits that graced our plates, too acidic and tangy for my tastes. But…” 

 

His heart clenches. This, this is the bitter part of the memory. He pushes on, as Kael’thas waits with bated breath.

 

“But Tyrande was born in Suramar, and had family there, so when she would visit, she would bring back many different confections. Many of them were chocolate, and served cold, so the confectioner would spell them so they would keep on her journey back. I have not had them in many years…”

 

Only his hand at Kael’thas’ back kept him from toppling backwards off the arch with excitement. 

 

“I think that we may have something similar, in the den,” says Kael’thas. “I will have to see if I can get some for you. Now, I offered you three memories, so you should tell me two more of your own.”

 

“You are presumptuous, Kael’thas,” Illidan says, “but I suppose I will humor you.” 

 

He thinks for a moment.

 

“Another thing, I think, that I still regard fondly are the scents of lavender and sage. When I served Kur’talos Ravencrest, many of the candles in the hold were infused with oils from those plants. 

 

“They smelled strongly in the morning, before enough were awake to stir the air. I suppose it’s one of my more peaceful memories, waking up slowly to their scent.”   
  


He hopes beyond hope that Kael’thas would leave his inquiry there, but the prince is relentless.

 

“And the last?” Kael’thas asks. “Surely, the great Illidan Stormrage has stolen a kiss or two from a paramour when no one was watching.”

 

Truly, he had not. There had only been one person Illidan had ever really been interested in, and nothing ever happened between them. Not that stopped his (many) admirers in his time as head of the Moon Guard, but Illidan rebuffed them all.

 

He realizes Kael’thas is still watching him and shakes his head.

 

“That is enough for one day, I should think,” he says. “Akama will be looking for both of us no doubt, if only to complain about our continued presence here. Allow me to help you down. It would not do for one of our best to break an ankle, or his neck.”

 

Illidan expects Kael’thas to puff with pride at the compliment, but the prince is strangely silent. His gaze weighs heavily on him as Kael’thas considers him for a moment. Even as Illidan carefully plucks him up by his waist, the prince’s silence is unbroken though he does carefully loop his arms around Illidan’s neck when they drop from the top of the arch.

 

When their feet touch the ground once more, Kael’thas only murmurs his thanks and a farewell before leaving Illidan to his own devices. 

 

Illidan tells himself he does not miss the warmth at his side.

 

* * *

 

It is barely a week later when Kael’thas finds him again. Illidan has seen a lot of the last Sunstrider recently, between their small war council on the demons assaulting the Temple to reviewing plans for expansion into the Netherstorm. Still, most of their conversation had been professional, with no hint to their earlier meeting.

 

Illidan sits on the top of a ramshackle shed in the middle of the Sin’dorei vineyards when Kael’thas’ magical signature winks into existence at the very edge of his senses. He is not entirely surprised to find the prince here, but the timing is rather strange. The keepers of the vineyard, much like most back at the Temple, are asleep with the late hour. Perhaps Kael’thas’ own insomnia has driven him here, he thinks.

 

As before, he does not greet Kael’thas immediately. His current company is more than enough for the night: small grape gryphons, bred for pest control, climb across his wings and lap with little care to their own well being. Indeed, one has the audacity to snap at him with its small beak when he attempts to remove it from his horns. 

 

He leaves it be.

 

His initial thought that Kael’thas might be searching for peace proves to be wrong when the prince seems to set his sights on Illidan. The grape gryphons squawk and hiss when Kael’thas climbs the old, rickety ladder up to the roof, displeased with this newest intruder. They have grown accustomed to Illidan from his many visits here, but new visitors are not exempt from their territorial wrath. Illidan notes that the prince is devoid of his usual robes, if his ease with the ladder and lack of noise is anything to go by. When Kael’thas sits by his side, Illidan can feel the softness of his buckskin pants and the roughness of what he presumes to be a tunic brushes his arm.

 

“I see I’m not the only sleepless one tonight,” Kael’thas says by way of greeting. Illidan watches a bright hand extend toward the nearest gryphon in Illidan’s lap. It snaps at the proffered fingers, but Kael’thas is not deterred.

 

“It seems so,” Illidan says. Kael’thas’ presence is disconcerting. Twice now, his vigils have  been interrupted by seemingly inane visits. The only blessing from his disrupted peace comes from the warmth Kael’thas radiates.

 

Kael’thas clicks his tongue and whistles between his teeth. Illidan can see the beast, dull as its life force is, tilt its head in curiosity. It pads across Illidan’s lap and considers Kael’thas’ hand as the prince softly croons at it. Finally, it takes the leap, hopping into the hand and sinking its tiny talons into the meat of Kael’thas’ arm to keep itself stable. For his credit, the prince does not flinch and instead reaches out to help the small creature into his own lap. The scent of Kael’thas’ blood pours into the air and Illidan’s sensitive nose cannot help but to flare.

 

“Are you alright?” he asks as the prince digs slender fingers into the feathers of the gryphon’s back.

 

“I’m fine,” Kael’thas replies. He seems to be straightening out odd feathers and the gryphon purrs at the attention. “Al’ar has given me far worse injuries, let me assure you. Thank you, though.”

 

Still, Illidan reaches into one of the pouches about his waist and procures a small roll of bandages. Kael’thas takes them and quickly wraps his arm, while the gryphon squawks from the indignity of Kael’thas’ split attention. It is quickly silenced when Kael’thas’ fingers sink back into its feathers.

 

“I apologize, for my indiscretion the other day,” Kael’thas says quietly. “It is not my place to pry into your life.”

 

“No apologies are needed, Kael’thas,” Illidan says and then considers for a moment. “Perhaps it was needed, to be reminded of some of the happier things in life. One question remains on my mind after our discussion, however.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Are you truly the competent mage you claim to be?” Illidan asks and Kael’thas seems stricken. He could hear the prince’s heart thundering in his chest as  Illidan lets the prince despair a moment longer before continuing. “I fail to see how you could be, if most of your education in Dalaran was spent trading kisses and hiding from your instructor’s eyes.”

 

It only takes a half second for comprehension to set in and then Kael’thas is laughing, bright as his presence and the warmth he gives. Illidan allows himself to chuckle lowly at his own joke, infected by Kael’thas’ brilliant laugh.

 

“It’s true,” Kael’thas says after he catches his breath. “I probably spent more time than I should have fooling about but lo, such is the privilege of a prince and a prodigy. Rommath was always so disappointed in me, when he was called to reprimand me for my truancy.”

 

Kael’thas launches into his story about his continued attempts to dodge his then-mentor, now-friend and Illidan can only marvel at the ease he feels in the prince’s presence. At one point, Kael’thas pauses in his story to pluck the errant gryphon from his antlers. The small creature cries out its distress for all to hear, unable or unwilling to get down from its perch, and Kael’thas soothes it with low murmurs when he leans over Illidan to get it. 

 

The warmth of the prince’s body is near comparable to a bonfire when his arms accidentally brush against Illidan’s face and Illidan sorrows that it is so quickly gone. He has been told by his newly made children, as they seek comfort by his side at night from their demon haunted dreams, that his own body carries warmth beyond compare and that is perhaps why everything, except Kael’thas, feels cold in the world. The memory of napping in a grove with his brother, and Tyrande tucked safely between their bodies, comes unbidden to him and he remembers the warmth and happiness of that small moment, beneath the afternoon sunshine. 

 

The gryphons grumble and hiss at each other in the small space of Kael’thas’ lap when he settles once more, discontent to share the warm space. Kael’thas only laughs at their fight before his gaze lifts back to Illidan.

 

“You’ve remembered something, something wonderful,” he guesses and not for the first time, Illidan wonders if mindreading is among the prince’s skills. “Will you tell me?”

 

Illidan hesitates. Is it wonderful? He feels sorrow in remembering it, but there too is the happiness Kael’thas spoke of, perhaps beckoned by the prince’s words. He turns the memory, the faint sensation of warmth and contentedness, over and over in his head as he ponders the price of sharing such a thing with his companion.

 

“Your warmth reminded me of a time long past,” he finally says. “It is a silly, frivolous thing.”

 

Kael’thas seems to take the comment about his warmth in stride, for he pushes Illidan further and says, “The memories I have shared are hardly serious. Please, tell me.”

 

The gryphons squawk in protest as Kael’thas scoots over, fully pressed against Illidan’s side now. It is as if the prince thinks his warm presence will unseal Illidan’s lips.

 

He isn’t wrong.

 

“It is from my youth,” Illidan says. “Before I joined up with Ravencrest, the Moon Guard. I was still studying as a mage, Tyrande as an apprentice in her priesthood, when my brother had not yet the overt signs of his druidism. A rare afternoon with all of us off had us racing each other through the forest together, as if we were children again.

 

“When we at last tired, Malfurion found a small pond, with a willow at its side. The trailing branches provided enough cover to shield us from the sun, but still let us enjoy the warmth. The three of us sat down to rest, we thought, for only a moment. I woke first, later in the afternoon, with Tyrande curled against my side and Malfurion laying beside her, with his arm over her waist.

 

“I thought…” His throat tightens and he clears it. “I thought to myself then, that if all my life could be like this, even if Tyrande were not mine, that I could be happy. I was happy, in that moment beneath the afternoon sun.”

 

His words fail him then, but Kael’thas does not push him further. Instead, the prince’s hands leave the small gryphons in his lap and clasp Illidan’s large, clawed hand. His hands are so small, Illidan thinks, but then again everything about the prince is small in comparison to himself.

 

“I hope you can hold onto that memory, that happiness,” Kael’thas says, “for I would help you find it again when all of our plans come to fruition.”

 

“Would you put yourself at my side, in some facsimile of that memory then?” Illidan asks. He cannot keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice. 

 

Kael’thas’ small hands squeeze his own briefly.

 

“If you would want me there, then yes,” Kael’thas says. He does not know if Kael’thas is ignorant of his past with Tyrande or merely does not care, to suggest such a thing, but the prince seems sincere. “I only wish for your happiness.”

 

“And what of your happiness?”

 

Illidan sees the outline of the prince’s face contort into a grim smile.

 

“When my people are saved, when they hunger no more, I will be content.”

 

“Then I will wish for your happiness, not your contentedness,” Illidan says and Kael’thas starts, shocked by his words, “and I will help you find it. Your contentedness I can assure, but your happiness will be my goal, if my own is yours.”

 

Kael’thas truly smiles then. Silence comfortably falls between them as the gryphons fuss about them, nipping both each other and Illidan’s fingers when he dares to reach out for them. 

 

When a chill wind, spawned by the swirling nether storms in the distance, Kael’thas shivers at Illidan’s side. His night clothes, for Illidan sees them now for what they are, do little to shelter him from the elements. Illidan flexes a wing out, startling the gryphons silly, and arches it around the prince to protect him from the wind. Kael’thas does not thank him, but the squeeze of his hands is more than enough to convey his appreciation. 

 

He is not surprised when the prince finally nods off against him. Illidan shifts so that one of his arms wraps around the prince, to keep him from falling away from him while he sleeps (and potentially off the roof of the shack, though small it might be). Against his own will, Illidan succumbs to the pull of sleep, aided by the warmth at his side.

 

When he wakes, he is alone on the roof of the shack, save for the small gryphons that have fallen asleep on him.

 

* * *

 

It is after their miserable defeat at Ice Crown when Kael’thas catches him alone once again. Illidan is in a miserable mood, no doubt helped by the stinging wound in his gut that seems to invite cold into his very bones. He knows he is lucky, to have companions such as Kael’thas and Vashj who would risk their lives for his own, who dragged him off the forsaken glacier and tended to him. Still, the wound and the fresh defeat sharpens his temper to a point. His fledglings, as he has taken to calling them, have given him a wide berth for fear his violent anger and the rest of the denizens of the Black Temple are no exception to this either. He is left alone to sulk and recover in his bare quarters.

 

Or, he would be, had Kael’thas not found him once more.

 

Illidan is prepared to snap when the prince lets himself into his rooms, deaf to Illidan’s command to leave him be. In Kael’thas’ arms is a basket full of bandages and tinctures and he settles himself at the edge of Illidan’s nest of blankets and cushions (for no bed ever again would hold the bulk of his figure).

 

“Leave!” he snaps once more. Kael’thas looks up and Illidan sees the flash of magic in the sin’dorei’s eyes.

 

“No,” says Kael’thas levelly. He ignores Illidan’s snarl and reaches for the dirty bandages about the other elf’s waist. Illidan catches his wrist.

 

“I do not know what end you seek with this inane visits,” Illidan growls, “but your pursuits will be no furthered like this! Leave!”

 

Kael’thas has the gall to look hurt as he rips his wrist from Illidan’s grip.

 

“I thought you knew what end that was,” the prince says quietly. Illidan can hear the hurt in his voice. “I said as much, when last we sat together that night. You are my dear companion and I would see your happiness. That is my end.”

 

Stunned by Kael’thas’ words, Illidan lets the prince reach for him once more. A small dagger, procured from the voluminous sleeves of Kael’thas’ robes, quickly cuts through the sullied bandages and Illidan shivers miserably when the cold air of his chambers hits the wound. Frostmourne had left its mark and he wondered if he would ever be warm once more with its lasting chill.

 

Kael’thas hisses in sympathy before standing once more, fetching the pitcher of water that one of his Illidari had shoved through the door at some point earlier in the day. Illidan tries to keep still as Kael’thas gently cleans the large, weeping gash in his stomach and mostly succeeds, though his talons do shred several pillows. When Kael’thas leans further into his space it dawns on Illidan that despite the cold he has felt since leaving Northrend, he can still clearly feel Kael’thas’ natural warmth. Before he can school his expression further, the awe shows on his face and the prince sees. Kael’thas freezes.

 

“What is it?” he asks. “Am I hurting you?”

 

Illidan shakes his head.

 

“No, my prince,” he says. “The lingering cold of Frostmourne has infected my body through my wound and for these days past, I have found that any warmth has evaded me...save for yours.”

 

Kael’thas’ head tilts slightly as he ponders Illidan’s words and finally lets out a small, harried laugh of relief. “Is that all?” he asks. “I did not know what to make of your expression and feared that I was rending some irreparable harm upon you. This is a problem that I can easily solve.”

 

The prince put his basket aside for a moment and feels around Illidan’s nest until he finds a suitable blanket for whatever purpose he has set his mind to. The one he has chosen is one of Illidan’s favorites, soft and large enough to nearly cover his frame in the way so few other blankets did. Kael’thas raises himself up on his knees, just enough toss the blanket about Illidan’s shoulders and wings. Illidan startles when the prince suddenly settles himself in his lap, basket cradled between them.

 

“Is this alright?” Kael’thas asks as he pulls the ends of the blanket behind him, so that the two of them are cradled within a cave made from Illidan’s wings and the blanket. Already the prince’s warmth has started to fill the space between them and the persistent pain in Illidan’s stomach seems to melt away.

 

Illidan nods in response and Kael’thas sets to work, applying salves to his wounds (for the bastard Arthas did not only settle in striking his stomach) and bandaging them. Kael’thas becomes too warm at one point and sheds his heavy mage robes, tossing them outside of the cocoon. Illidan still revels in the warmth and thinks that he will never get enough of it.

 

“It is pleasant,” he confesses, words slipping from his lips before he can stop them. “Never before have I been tended to like this. I have always been left alone to lick my wounds in solitude.”

 

“Truly?” Kael’thas asks, astonishment bare in his voice. 

 

“Not all of us have servants waiting on our wants hand and foot, my prince,” Illidan teases. It is true, though. Not even Tyrande had tended to him such a way, preferring to leave him to his own devices while mending his brother’s wounds. He knows that in a way it is a compliment to his own independence and capability, but part of him still always wished for that sort of care.

 

“I hardly have such servants now,” Kael’thas grumbles. “It is a shame, though. For all the memories you have shared with me, I would have thought that someone cared for you enough to tend to you.”

 

Illidan shakes his head again. Kael’thas presumes much about his would-be relationship with Tyrande and this is but another misconception.

 

The prince huffs and suddenly reaches up for Illidan’s face with his slender hands. Warmth seeps into his skin and Illidan lets his useless lids fall closed.

 

“Then let it be said now. You have someone who cares for you now. I wish you would not hide yourself away. Your suffering does not have to be alone.”

 

“Again, you presume your position.”

 

“Again, you only offer token objection,” Kael’thas replies. “I would presume one more thing, if you would let me.”

 

Illidan knows what it is that Kael’thas offers him now, knows that the nature of their fragile relationship has been rapidly changing since the prince first found him. It has been a long, lonely ten thousand years without someone at his side, a lonely time in his pining for Tyrande. He knows now that Kael’thas seeks to mend that tattered hole left in his heart, to offer a bit of his own in place to help make Illidan whole once more.

 

He lets him.

 

Kael’thas’ lips barely brush his own at first, but even the light touches scorch away the remaining ice in his gut. When the prince pulls back, unsure of his actions, Illidan is quick to reassure him. He untangles his claws from the ripped blankets and places a hand at the small of Kael’thas’ back, gently guiding the prince back into a kiss. Their kisses are slow, cautious, perhaps more for the care of Illidan’s inexperience than for for lack of eagerness. Not that Illidan’s own inexperience bothers him so, for he finds himself glad that his first (of hopefully many) has gone to this sweet, bright individual. When at last Kael’thas settles back in his lap, Illidan cannot bring himself to let go of the prince.

 

“I hope you know what you have tied yourself to, my prince,” Illidan says, his voice rough from the emotions coursing through him. Kael’thas smiles up at him, his hand stroking over the pitted scars near Illidan’s blindfold.

 

“I know  _ who _ exactly I have chosen, master,” he says. “Though I worried that perhaps you would not ever realize that I had made a choice. You are infuriatingly dense, sometimes.”

 

“I am only so as such a brilliant fey creature like yourself does not belong with a scarred monster like me.”

 

Kael’thas sighs and says, “I wish you see yourself as I see you, master.”

 

“And how is that, Kael’thas?”

 

The prince carefully pushes against his chest, wary of the deep, bandaged wounds, and Illidan allows himself to fall back against the nest of blankets. He expects Kael’thas to descend upon him once more, in some lust-fueled haze, but the prince only reverently traces the fel tattoos upon Illidan’s chest before speaking once more.

 

“I see you as a wonderful man, one who has suffered much but still has the compassion and kindness to help those who would not deserve otherwise. One who continues to give and give and give to those around him, despite all the pain he has gone through. I see a strong man who bears the weight of the world on his shoulders, but whose tread is still soft for the harm it may cause.”

 

Kael’thas hands finally reach his face once more and the prince leans over him to brush their lips together once more. Illidan can see the outline of the brilliant smile that he’s come to associate with the mage.

 

“I see a man...a man who at my side, would help make memories I could never look back upon in bitterness...if he would have me.”

 

Illidan finally, truly smiles for what feels like the first time in ten thousand years.

 

“I would, I would have you and your happiness.”

 

Kael’thas is soon lost the mess of blankets, happy laughter erupting from his throat when Illidan pulls him from his chest into the nest. The way the prince tucks himself against Illidan’s side, curled into the broad expanse of Illidan’s chest, harkens back to another happier time and he is determined to keep this happiness, this time around. Illidan thinks that perhaps the young prince was right when he said that he would find the happiness from his memories some day. 

 

He knows he has found it now.


End file.
